


Intermittent

by Anonymous



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Mission 10, Only implied gore (non descript), Visions of V
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 00:33:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s a recurring necessity. One he pleads to keep restrained to last resort instances. One he’s come to make use of with a steadily increasing frequency. And yet, every time it comes as a cold, dreaded shock to his system.(Or: what if V has to go through the same process every time he summons Nightmare.)





	Intermittent

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi) for lending me their time and beta-ing this <3

It’s a recurring necessity. One he pleads to keep restrained to last resort instances. One he’s come to make use of with a steadily increasing frequency. And yet, every time it comes as a cold, dreaded shock to his system.

It’s in the way the burst of pure, raw _ power _lifts from his very flesh, stripping his hair of its tainted ichor; manifesting in the form of viscous tar that falls from the sky, nearly forcing him to recoil at the sight of the Nightmare before him. Leisurely leaving destruction in its wake, careening through the hordes of demons like nothing more than a tantruming child. It’s only with practised cognitive dissonance that V manages to control the otherwise indomitable, counterfeit demon. Directing it where he wishes as it follows it’s masters orders. 

_ My Nightmare. _

It’s in the way the oozing, bubbling, inky, horrid blackness crawls across the pavement all the way back to its frail home that is V’s body. Constricting his airflow at once, and vacating his tired lungs of all oxygen through one wheezed, weak exhale as it settles down once more, bringing with it all that’s promised in it’s namesake. He should've come to expect it, by now; learned to prepare for it, for how it will always come for him, and always take, and take, _ and take _ in exchange for the aid it provides him. A fair symbiosis, perhaps. But not one V has to enjoy. 

The world tilts sideways, the stalemate orbs of his less demanding familiars tilting with it. While he doesn’t feel his head hit the concrete, his ears still ring with the force of it all; partially black hair falling into his face and obscuring his view of the only world he’s known since birth—a city damned to be swallowed up by the roots of what he thought would be his absolution.

Really, he should have learned by now. And yet, here he is, once again.

His eyes are wide but unseeing. There is nothing but the taste of bile on the back of his tongue and the aching burn of his lungs, as he tries to draw in desperately sought after oxygen. His limbs must have already gone numb, because when V tries to shift somewhat, to lay onto his back instead and not atop the arm crushed beneath his weight, he gets no response. Not a twitch from his heavy, limp body. It’s useless, of course. All V can do is go through the motions, hope that he will not get ambushed in the interim of unconsciousness.

It’s with one last laboured breath, that V gives in, and allows himself to fall within the core of his worst Nightmare.

Water sloshes around him: rising, and rising, until part of his face is completely submerged, and the marble visage that mocks him from far away is only partially visible through the thick layer of dark, dark liquid. It matters not. Mundus is no longer his worst nightmare—no, now there are other, far more terrifying things waiting for him here. Hiding beneath the surface, like a predator waiting patiently to scent its prey, and V has no choice in the role he plays. It’s always the same, always the frigid grasp of hands that were once his own, encased in metal, thrusting through the ground, reaching for him, clinging and squeezing and _ suffocating. _

Every time employing a new manner of torture upon his fatigued flesh. Gripping onto his arms, legs, throat, hair with enough force to bruise, with enough force to come away with a few stray locks of white, white hair. Reaching for his eyes, as if to remove them lest he see the flash of red that always comes for him, presenting V with the reality of what he has become.  
  
Weak and powerless. Human and frail. 

He bids them no mind. Far too tired to dispute them, far too tired to fight. They roam his body without a modicum of regard for the way his airways are slowly filling up with filthy water the longer he lies here, like a broken rag doll tossed on its side. Violating his body, his mind with a hunger V understands. A desperation V can sympathize with. 

A longing for freedom V cannot give. 

And yet the attempts never cease, as they are never realized either. The thought nearly rips a ragged chuckle from his drowning lungs. This too matters not.

It’s not real. Not anymore. None of it is real, merely a part of the illusion that makes Nightmare. This, he’s learned. This, he forces himself to remember. Eventually it will end, although temporarily, and he’ll awaken again on the cold hard ground with his familiars etched into his flesh and newly forged determination to see this through. To bring his own reign to an end. 

Somehow, he will survive this, too. A necessity, a tool to fight this war he has declared on himself.

He doesn’t scream when blood begins mixing in with water, black like the ink that stains him. Doesn’t make a sound aside from the wet gasp that leaves him inadvertently once he’s pried away from the ground, twisted and turned until he can breathe once more. Cough his lungs free of the liquid he inhaled. He won’t plead with it. It will not listen anyway. V is not its master, after all, and the face that greets him when green eyes lift towards the pitch black heavens is not interested in sparing a single part of him. 

Ironic, how he is now the power he had once sought, back when he had nothing left but the golden chain around his neck. But his blood is a useless, poor imitation of what once was envied Sparda blood, now more human than not. What courses through him is not salvation, merely a curse forced upon him by a mother he loved dearly.

Oh, how ironic, that it is his mother's gift that beckons the beast before him, dangerously coaxing it away from a master that does not deal out forgiveness. 

“There is nothing for you here.” V says, raising a hand to weave his fingers through those encased in metal. Stained red, the only visible color amongst a vast expanse of monochromatic nothingness. 

He brings the gauntlet to his chest, pressing it there, above the heartbeat once stolen from him. “What you seek, I cannot give.”

For a moment, V thinks he finally sees it: the wisp of red leather, bringing with it the smell of not-quite gunpowder. The ultimate ending to this Nightmare as well. As it has done to many, many others.

“But fear not. Release will come soon.” He’s not sure why he’s attempting to placate the thing, the demon who knows no reason aside from a thirst that will never be quenched. 

This time, V cannot do anything else but watch, as Nelo Angelo gets torn apart, limb from limb, by the large hands that descend upon them. As his brother merely stands by and watches.

And then, his world goes dark.

  


There's a voice calling for him, V thinks. From somewhere up above him; insistent, agitated. 

With a groan, he rolls himself over, so he may push himself up and off the ground. Failing, arms still too weak and quivering beneath his weight. 

“Holy shit, V,” says the voice—one he quickly recognizes as_ Nero _. Because it’s Nero who is currently grasping onto his arm, sloppily tugging him upwards and onto his feet. “I thought you were roadkill there for a second.”

The grip disgusts him, forces a shudder to run through him. _ Wretched metal, cold and unyielding. Embedded deep within his bones and allowing no escape. One final prison. _

He swats away the hands that make his skin prickle in alert and aggravate the coil of anxiety deep in his gut. 

“I’m fine,” V says, keeping his eyes fixed on the wreckage that once was a standing building, rather that chance the bright blue of the boy’s gaze, once so much like his own.

“Is that what you wanna call the impromptu nap you just took on the ground?” Nero counters, scoffing in clear disbelief. 

A flutter of wings to his left alerts him to a third presence, a brief inspection confirming the missing swirls of ink upon his skin, just as a solid weight presses into his shoulder. 

“For once, I gotta agree with Mr. Hot Stuff over here. He’s got a point, V. You can’t keep conkin’ out like that— “ 

Hands abruptly wrap around Griffon’s beak, firmly holding it shut and cutting him off. It takes V a couple of seconds to realize they are his own. 

“_Silence. _” V hisses out. He does not need to hear this right now, does not need the aid nor the concern. V does not need any of it nor does he want it. 

Lies, of course. All of them. V does not care. 

Even Nero seems somewhat unnerved by the blatant aggression despite his open dislike for the familiar. The boy is terrible at concealing emotion, after all, although V is fully aware of the hypocrisy in that thought. 

“V,” Nero begins, and already V is overcome by the urge to retreat back into battle, where there is no room for words. “You can’t—“  
  
“Will you do this every time?” V challenges. The question is rhetorical, of course, and Nero seems to catch on fast.

“I’m just—“  
  
“We must press forward, we’re running out of time,” V urges, instead, with a finality that leaves no room for argument. Although he knows this is far from over, if the boy’s stubbornness is anything like his brother dearest, he will certainly try to quell this line of discussion.

With a quick sweep of his eyes, he busies himself with locating his cane, luckily only a couple of feet away. But Nero is quicker, and much closer, kneeling down to pick it up instead. 

"Are you at least gonna tell me what that was?"

No, V can’t say he particularly wants to.

He settles for the task of slowly dragging the last vestige of consciousness back from the core of his largest familiar, rather than bear witness to the cocktail of unease and defiance that twists at the boy's face. The longer this carries on, the weaker V gets. He doesn’t have time to sit around and _ chat. _

V sighs, deep and weary. 

“Well?” Nero presses. 

The boy is relentless in his misplaced worry, and V has a feeling Nero is particularly adamant about not letting this go. Far too caring for his own good; something a part of V hopes will never be burned out of the boy, never be tugged and stretched far past its limits, until all that is left is a bitterness so overwhelming, and a betrayal so encompassing.

"Nightmare...takes quite a bit out of me, when I call upon him," is the only reply V offers in a hopeful attempt to cut this short.

Ah, he should know better by now.

"So, wait, you're telling me this happens every time?" Nero asks, closing the distance between them in two large strides. "You just? Pass out in the middle of a fight?"

"No. I'm fully capable of retaining consciousness long enough to see the fight through. Afterwards, however…"

"V—"

"Your...concern is duly noted, but I do not have a choice in the matter, and neither do you. The clock is ticking—"

"What happens if you get, I don't know, ambushed or something while you’re out cold?"

V pauses, raising a brow. "Do you have a better solution, then?"

The silence that follows is certainly telling. 

From his perch atop V's shoulder, Griffon cackles, "Thought so! Now how about you go get back to work?"

"Hey, what the hell do I look like, a—” Nero starts to protest, but V refuses to listen to any more of this, reaching to snatch his cane directly out of the boy’s hands.

"I paid you to do a job,” V interrupts. “Did I not?”

Nero’s shoulders square and stiffen, very much like a child trying to assess if he’s in trouble or not. 

“Fine,” he finally yields. “But I’m not dragging your corpse through Red Grave if I happen to run across it.”

It rips a chuckle from V’s ragged lungs, “Of course,” he says, with a slow spreading smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I only asked for your aid in stopping Urizen. Everything else is… superfluous.” 

Nero snorts, tearing his eyes away to instead settle on the ground, somewhere. “Right, superfluous.”

In the end, it does not matter. V is not meant to walk this earth as a solitary existence. And soon, it will be all over.


End file.
